


Sleep

by Coatcollars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Sherlock is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coatcollars/pseuds/Coatcollars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I can't... I can't ever wake up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

 

 

 

 

_"There are these terrors. And it's like, it feels like as if somebody was gripping my..._

_There are these terrors. And it's like, it feels like as if somebody was gripping my throat_

_Like last night, they are not like tremors, they are worse than tremors, there are these terrors_

_Like last night, they are not like tremors, they are worse than tremors, there are these terrors_

_And it's like, it feels like as if somebody was gripping my throat and squeezing and_

_It feels like as if somebody was gripping my throat"_

 

 

It was raining

 

It seemed like it always rained.

 

London always had awful weather, but Sherlock had never minded. It actually seemed to have a cosy feel, he had said. He would fold up in his chair neatly, an excruciatingly heavy book in his lap and a soft blue fleece covering his broad shoulders. John had always laughed, he would go over to his side and sit on the armrest. The doctor was never surprised to see theories and charts printed amongst the yellowing pages, Sherlock always wanted to expand his knowledge, expand his great mind.

 

The same mind was but thrown to waste that day he jumped off Bart's. His blood had circled his head and that beautiful was mind splayed over the pavement, it had painted everything red. It soaked at Johns shoes as he reached for him. He remembers clinging to his wrist and searching for a pulse. And he remembers blood. 

 

There was so much blood.

 

John never regrets scooting towards the skinny heat source during those nights it rained and the temperature seemed to drop drastically. He never regretted caressing Sherlock's arm absentminded, leaning against him. He never regretted their relationship.

 

 

_Some say, now suffer all the children_

_And walk away a savior_

_Or a madman and polluted_

_From gutter institutions_

 

Now, the water erupts from the clouds above him, it sends memories. Persistent prods that never seemed to stop. He was desperate as he tried so dearly to forget the man who had come into his life. He had quickly left his trace, leaving as though he thought his legacy would be buried with him, that it wouldn't exist. He left with the intentions to evaporate.

 

 Sherlock was like rain. He had come and left floods, overflowing into heart until eventually, he was drowning. But the water never dried, it was unlike normal water. This was different. 

 

He would sit in Sherlock's chair and bunch up Sherlock's favourite blanket around him. He would cry during his worst nights. He would make the blue in the blanket darker as he dried away his tears.

_Don't you breathe for me_

_Undeserving of your sympathy_

_Cause there ain't no way that I'm sorry for what I did_

 

 

 Sherlock would never want this. He would never want John like this, he would never wish for him to stay awake during the night to slowly draw an acceptance to not sleep at all. John would listen to the rain, beause real was _beautiful_ , rain was _Sherlock._

 

 

_And through it all_

_How could you cry for me?_

_Cause I don't feel bad about it_

 

He would try to sleep, he really would. He would stifle the tears the best he could, duck his head under the blanket and cup his hands over his ears until he could only hear a gentle buzz. He would never last long, he would become uncomfortable and his eyes would burn, he would tug at his hair out of exasperation and dig his nails into his scalp.

 

 

_So shut your eyes_

_Kiss me goodbye_

_And sleep_

_Just sleep_

 

 

Sometimes, John would cry himself to sleep. He would cry until his brain was numb and his eyelids would relax. He would sniff one last time before spinning off into a trance. 

 

John never minded the sleeping, he minded the terrors. The ones where the water from the sky fell from awfully dark clouds. When clear water would mix with crimson and suddenly Sherlock's lifeless and heavy body would be in his arms. The dreams when Sherlock had blood trickling down the curves of his face. His pale eyes would sometimes dart to look at John. He would always mouth words and John would always be filled with terror, but he would never let go. No, that made him hold on even tighter.

 

In his terrors, he would shout for Sherlock to come down from the roof, he would shout until his voice was a hoarse whisper to barely audible. That was always when Sherlock jumped; after he had stopped shouting. Was it his fault? The sky would turn an impressive colour and John's dream-self  would be distracted. 

 

 

By the time John snapped back and jogged over, Sherlock would always be standing by his own body, he would be circling around it. The detective would be muttering theories and crouching next to it in an all to familiar way. He would always look up and smile at John when he arrived, " _Well aren't you going to help me?_ " he would say. 

 

 

_The hardest part is letting go of your dreams_

 

He would always wake up with the feeling of water clinging to his body. He would feel it licking his skin to the point he would throw the blanket down the floor and scream. He would crawl back to Sherlock's chair. He would be trembling and running his hands over his physically dry body, he would try to reassure his brain he wasn't soaking wet.

 

 

_A drink for the horror that I'm in_

_For the good guys, and the bad guys_

_For the monsters that I've been_

_Three cheers for tyranny_

_Unapologetic apathy_

 

 

He would set the blanket back over his chest and sit properly, he would think and listen to the rain. He would doubt, he would analyze. John would become angry. He cursed Sherlock's name, he would shout for him in the confines of his heart and cry when never got an answer. 

 

Some nights, he would be in his bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom. He would reach his arm across for Sherlock in his sleep. He would never find anything, so he sits up and scramble in the sheets looking for him, _("Sherlock-?"_  )

 

 

 

John would bury himself in his hands. He would wrap his arms  around _his_ pillow and sink back into the mattress. He cries again for Sherlock as he shuts his eyes tightly. He doesn't feel Sherlock anymore, there's no  warm body next to him letting a distinct scent John had grown to love. He's cold, and it smells like washing detergent.

 

_And through it all,_

 

_How could you cry for me?_

 

He never sees Sherlock, he never feels a presence or certain awakening. He wonders if this should mean something. 

 

He loves Sherlock.

 

John rests on his side, he's not quite sleeping as much as he is thinking. He holds his eyes shut and keeps his right arm over Sherlocks spot, he's not moving, he's just breathing.

 

Sherlock loved him.

 

 

_Cause I don't feel bad about it._

He's back to a day when Sherlock is laying on the couch. He's still in his sleeping clothes and his long legs are hanging over the arm rest. He's thinking, John can see that. The way his fingers and tapping furiously in the table next him, the manner in which his forearm is draped over his eyes. John walks over and sits next to Sherlocks head, they're not quite touching but Sherlock's hand ceases movement. John shifts away to the opposite armrest, receiving the message. Sherlock fingers drum once more before his hand is flat on the table. 

 

"What are you doing?" He snaps.

 

"I'm sitting."

 

"No, before."

 

"I sat."

 

Sherlock moves his arm from his face and he has the beginning of a smile playing at his lips. He somehow moved during that time because his hand had appeared on Johns.

 

He had blushed and Sherlock twisted his slender fingers between his. John was shocked, he thought it was an experiment. Then Sherlock opened his mouth. 

 

He talked about how John was an idiot, he ridiculed him with subtlety and John couldn't help but gape at him. Sherlock was now blabbering about how important John was to him, how he probably would have... -John couldn't remember- _"You keep me sane."_ he had said afterwards.

 

 He managed to keep a cool tone the majority of his speech, until he looked at Johns face for the first time. Sherlock was flush with an awkward expression painted on his face, John had never seen him like that. He held Johns hand in his lap with both of his, _"So?"_ he finally asked.

 

John nodded.

 

And that was the beginning of that.  

 

 

_So shut your eyes_

_Kiss me goodbye_

_And sleep_

_Just sleep_

 

 

They were kissing. Sherlock was leaning on top of John and he was _actually kissing_ him. They never broke contact, and John was kissing back. 

 

Months later, John said it and Sherlock kissed him, then he said it too.

After a week.

 

They said it multiple times a day, they kissed at crime scenes _("We can't kiss! It's a crime scene!")_ , in the lounge _("Sherlock! Taxes!")_ , in the bedroom _("Okay good, very good."),_   and John couldn't have been happier. 

 

It was the most complicated yet simple relationship he's ever had. 

 

 

_The hardest part's the awful things that I've seen_  

 

John snaps back to present and he wishes he wouldn't have to. He finds himself crying again because he misses that, he misses Sherlock. And it's destructive in every way  that he's gone.

John's not thinking, he's feeling.

 

He's tired. He's tired of him dead

_"...Sometimes I see flames._

 

_And sometimes I see people that I love dying and... it's always..."_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Song- www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oHShap1jM0
> 
> Lyric Spread-www.plyrics.com/lyrics/mychemicalromance/sleep.htm


End file.
